moggierocket
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Open the door.
You might see nothing but crumbling wallpaper, peeling paint. Linoleum curled like autumn leaves. You might notice the damp beneath the frayed curtain and the way the doorhandles rattle as you push through.
But let me tell you something you may not see with your living eyes — that this husk was once a home. Let me remind you of the children that once played, noses pressed against the glass as they waved at trams rattling by outside.
Let me tell you of my emerald velvet coat that hung on the peg, the mohair beret I used to hurl to the shelf as I shrugged off my winter boots and stepped inside. There is no need to warn you of the fire that burns no more in the empty hearth. Or of the kitchen cupboards, once piled so high that we opened them in fear of sending a saucer spinning from the top of the stack.
Do you need to know of the loving words I whispered to my man in the dark of night, of the soothing stories I whispered to my children in late hours when sleep wouldn’t come?
Tread lightly when you step inside and remember that although I am long gone this husk was once my home.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, Debra Broughton and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
